A Hard Day's Night
by Kerowyn
Summary: Aurora Harland and Sherlock Holmes, unlikely partners, thief and dectective, reunite to solve a kidnapping. But when kidnapping turns to murder, and another young woman disappears, the plot takes a dangerous twist.
1. Author's Note

NARRATOR: Last time, in the 19th century… ::images begin to flash through your brain:: 21st century thief extraordinare Aurora 'Onyx' Harland was transported back in time to the Victorian Era. Upon arrival she was rescued (Aurora: yeah right, like I needed rescuing) by none other than Sherlock Holmes. After many twists and turns, Aurora and Holmes learn to trust each other, and just so happen to foil the crime of the century in the process. Now, Aurora lives in both worlds, fighting 19th bad-asses with 21st century attitude in…::music swells:: "A Hard Day's Night."  
  
Well, that was cheesy. But fun, very, very fun. Since I had such great support for writing a sequel, I present to you the second adventure shared by Aurora and Holmes. It's a little dark this time. I don't know if I was in a bad mood or I just watched too much CSI.   
  
I want to thank Inspiration for introducing me to the Mary Russell series. I encourage all of you who have not read it to do so.   
  
Also, special thanks goes out to everyone who reviewed last time, and encouraged me to keep writing, despite my insane schedule. Perhaps that explains the insane writing, hmm…  
  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·.   
  
  
p.s. As always, everything belonging to Conan Doyle belongs to Conan Doyle. But Aurora is mine and you can't have her!(unless you ask nicely) 


	2. A Plea For Help

A Hard Day's Night  
  
Chapter One  
A Plea For Help  
  
"So, Mr. Holmes," I said, "what is this new case of yours about?"   
  
Holmes, being the dramatist that he was, didn't answer. Instead he took two letters from the mantelpiece and handed them to me. The first one went like went like this:  
  
Dear Mr. Holmes,  
  
My name is Alexander Beckham. I apologize for not being able to come and present my case in person, but recent events have had a terrible effect on my health, and it is a trial for me to leave the house.  
My daughter, Helena, has disappeared and I fear something terrible has happened to her. If you would look into her disappearance I would be most grateful.  
  
Sincerely,  
Alexander Beckham  
  
It was dated in about a month ago. The second letter read much the same way, except it was from a James Goldmeyer about his missing daughter Jane. The second one had been sent just a couple of days ago.  
  
"Well?" I asked. "What's the pattern? Aside from the fact that you have two missing women."   
  
Holmes took his time before answering. I could see he was not happy about these cases, or case. I spread the two letters out on the table, looking for similarities. The dates were almost exactly a month apart.  
  
Holmes spoke suddenly, dragging my thoughts out of paper and ink analysis. "I can find no pattern besides the fact that both women were out of work governesses; a common enough occupation these days. All were last seen in different areas of town. They didn't know each other or have any mutual friends."  
  
Holmes sounded very exasperated, but only someone who knew him well would have noticed it. "I have not been helped by the fact that I have only been able to speak with Mr. Beckham."  
  
"What about the police? Has anyone filed a missing persons report?" I asked, knowing the answer.  
  
Holmes snorted his contempt for the police. "Of course, but the police feel that the young ladies will turn up eventually." Then Sherlock Holmes had what I like to call a light bulb moment. He sat up in his chair and looked over at me. "Aurora…"  
  
Exactly what his brilliant scheme was he didn't get a chance to say. The bell rang downstairs and Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway a moment later, leading one Inspector Lestrade.   
  
He took one look at me and gasped. "You!" Now let me pause and explain the history between the good inspector and I. The last time I crashed at Holmes' place, I kinda got caught up in a plot to steal the British Crown Jewels. Although I was trying to prevent the theft (and doing a very good job, might I add) Lestrade still thought I had a hand in helping the two guys who were stealing the Jewels escape. Needless to say, he didn't like me too much.  
  
"Miss Aurora Watson had returned from America to visit her uncle. I trust we can all leave the past in the past." Holmes said smoothly. Score one for me! Lestrade appeared to be fighting the urge to arrest me. To his credit he ignored it and spoke again.  
  
"I think we've had a break in that missing persons case you brought to our attention." He said, not looking happy at all. "We found a body matching the description of Helena Beckham."  
  
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I know it's short but the next chapter will arrive in a few days. It's great to be posting again!  
  
Question, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	3. Yellow Tape and Classifieds

Chapter Two  
Yellow Tape and the Classifieds  
  
If Lestrade looked unhappy, it was nothing compared to Holmes' reaction. He was pissed off. It was no good telling him that it wasn't his fault. Holmes was just that kind of person who felt that the world rested upon his shoulders. Any failure, no matter whose fault, he took it personally.  
  
After much silent objection from Lestrade, all three of us took a carriage down to the scene of the murder. The weather was, what else, rainy, but it had cleared by the time we arrived at the crime scene. There was no yellow plastic police tape, but aside from that, it looked like a scene out of gangster movie, complete with about a dozen grim faced detectives.   
  
The uniformed men parted to let us through, with several questioning glances at me. The alley was dark and filthy. Vermin squeaked and skittered unseen all around. Several large puddles of sewage and filth had formed during the rain. One side was an office building, the other a low-rent apartment building. The apartment's windows shone dimly through the cracks in the shutters, put up to keep out the rain and stench. Helena Beckham's body lay against an alley wall.  
  
I had never seen an actually dead body before. Except for her ghostly pallor, she might have been sleeping. Then Holmes turned her on her side. The back of her skull had been crushed with a sledgehammer. I forced myself to look away, shivering. Thankfully, no one noticed and put it down to feminine weakness.   
  
"She hasn't been here long, maybe an hour." Holmes said in a detached voice. "The ground under her body is damp."  
  
"The neighbors didn't hear anything until a passerby found her and started yelling for help." Lestrade put in.  
  
"They SAY they didn't hear anything. They could be covering for someone." I corrected.  
  
Holmes broke in before we could make an argument of it. "Rigor mortis has yet to set in. If this is Helena Beckham, she's been alive for the past month." The lantern light was focused on her body, but I saw something flicker out of the corner of my eye.   
  
"Hey!" I grabbed the lantern from Lestrade and focused it further down the alley. A light blue object was revealed in the pool of light. I hesitated before picking it up. I felt as if I should be wearing latex gloves or something. It was a purse, light blue to match Helena's dress. The initials, "H.B." were embroidered on it in silver thread. Inside, there were all the purse essentials, makeup, a brush, some money and a set of keys.  
  
  
  
  
Holmes and I searched the whole alley, but found no more hidden clues. A cold wind whistled through the alley. A stench rose from the ground, different than before. It was familiar from high school biology class and dissection labs, but I couldn't remember the name until Holmes spoke.   
  
"Formaldehyde." And there could only be one source. We looked at Helena's body. "Rigor mortis can fade as the body cools. She might have preserved for a month in formaldehyde."   
  
The sun didn't so much rise as fade in. The thick cloud cover prevented both light and warmth from reaching the ground. To my surprise, the cab passed Baker Street. I glanced at Holmes.  
  
"Ms. Helena was most likely killed the same day Jane Goldmeyer was kidnapped. Both went missing in the middle of the day with no witnesses. They simply went out for the day and never came back. " He explained as the carriage pulled up at an unfamiliar address. "The next logical course of action is to speak with the Goldmeyer family."   
  
I couldn't gather much information about the owners from the house. Firmly entrenched in the middle class, the father probably did something at an office for a living and the mother puttered around the house. Holmes went up and rang the bell, and asked for Mrs. Goldmeyer.  
  
We were immediately shown into the sitting room, where Mrs. Goldmeyer sat, hands full of embroidery. Her eyes lit up when we came in, but when she saw that I wasn't her daughter she sank back down into her chair, defeated and sorrowful.  
  
"Do you have any news?" She asked, obviously not expecting any. Holmes shook his head.  
  
"Mrs. Goldmeyer, I am sorry to bother you, but I've been unable to see your husband. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I wanted to ask if you ever heard from your daughter that she had found a new job."  
  
"No," she shook her head slowly, looking at her stitching rather than us. "She promised she would get a job though. Promised she would send her brother's tuition in a month. She's helping him through law school you see. She was always a good, kind girl."   
  
It became clear that Mrs. Goldmeyer wasn't really speaking to us. As she rambled on about how good Jane Goldmeyer was, I looked around. The only thing of interest in the room was a family portrait. Mrs. Goldmeyer was still talking to her stitching so I got up to take a closer look. You can tell a lot about a family from their pictures, even the posed ones.   
  
Mr. Goldmeyer didn't look like a nice guy. He was standing stiffly behind his seated wife, gripping her shoulder possessively. A boy who looked about fourteen stood in the opposite corner of the frame from his father. He stood close to his mother, with her arm draped lovingly across his shoulders. Jane was seated close to her mother, leaning towards her and away from her father. But that wasn't what caught my attention. Jane could have been Helena's twin. Same blond hair done in the same style, same dark eyes, same features. I looked at Holmes. He saw it too.  
  
Mrs. Goldmeyer finally noticed what we were looking at. "Oh yes, that's my Jane right there. We took that picture right before she left for her first job out in Devonshire." She gave a little sob before continuing. "She came over for dinner the night she disappeared. Her brother wasn't here that night so she said she'd be right back in the morning to meet him."  
  
"What do you think happened to her Mrs. Goldmeyer?" Holmes asked.  
  
"Oh, I don't know." She answered, although her expression told a different story. "My husband thinks that she got a new job and moved away. But she would have told us. She would have told us. I fear something terrible, terrible."  
  
"Who wrote the letter then?" I asked, the letter asking for our help was definitely signed by Mr. Goldmeyer.   
  
"Oh, I did." She said cheerily. "You know he doesn't really think she's gone."  
  
It was with relief that we got back outside. The loss of her daughter had clearly unhinged Mrs. Goldmeyer a bit. Thankfully, Holmes didn't seem interested in visiting any more families. I had just about all the depressing I could take for one day.  
  
I nearly jumped out of the carriage at Baker Street, eager to be back on familiar ground. Holmes didn't follow. "I'm headed down to Scotland Yard. I want to check a few of their files."  
  
I walked up stairs, a bit peeved at being left behind. I hadn't seen Watson in a while; he was busy with his real job, so the apartment was empty when I arrived. 221B Baker Street rarely changed, except to go from messy to messier. Papers, files, knickknacks, and other such things tended to accumulate on every flat surface.   
  
I lay down on the couch. "If I were an out of work governess, what would I do?" I asked the ceiling. The answer was fairly obvious. Look for a job. A sudden idea struck me. Among the other crap, were piles of newspapers dating back several months.  
  
I dug out all the newspapers for the week that Jane, had disappeared. There was a rather haphazard filing system, though it was just that the older papers were on the bottom of the pile. I eliminated every ad that was posted after the attacks. There were only a few ads in each paper, so I was left with about six possibles.   
Then I found all the ads for Helena's disappearance. To my disappointment, no ad appeared on both occasions, I had been hoping that a single person was luring them in. I looked again, but none of the names changed. Then I noticed the addresses. The same address, 720 Vauxhall Road.  
  
I set aside the classified ads for a moment, and scanned the news stories. There was an article about Helena Beckham two days after she disappeared. Apparently, her father had some obscure government connection and was able to talk someone into writing a story. Jane Goldmeyer had a single paragraph in the crime section.   
  
The front door didn't quite slam as Holmes returned. "There have been no other kidnappings of young women in the past six months. Scotland Yard sees no connection between these cases." Once again he snorted his contempt for the men in uniform. "The autopsy of Ms. Beckham showed that she died of blunt force trauma, obviously. The formaldehyde hadn't penetrated the third layer of skin, placing time of death about three days ago." I shuddered at thought of a body soaking in formaldehyde.  
  
"That would be the same day this ad was posted." I handed him the newspaper clippings. Holmes saw what I meant immediately.   
  
"Same address, different names."  
  
"It's highly unlikely that two different families lived there in two months." I added.   
  
"Which implies a fake name, which implies something worth investigating." Holmes finished. Great minds think alike.   
  
  
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Definitely too much CSI. Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	4. The Direct Approach

My first update of the New Year. Happy 2003 Everyone!  
  
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Chapter Three  
The Direct Approach  
  
Okay, maybe great minds don't think alike. My idea for finding out just who lived at 720 Vauxhall Road involved going up and ringing the doorbell. Holmes dismissed that plan on the grounds that it was too dangerous.   
  
"More dangerous than saving the Crown Jewels?" I asked. Holmes shook his head.  
  
"I won't allow you to go alone." He insisted. I didn't object. After all, it was kinda sweet.  
  
The clouds hung heavy over London. It threatened to rain again as we drove across the Thames and down Vauxhall Road. The ad for a governess appeared in today's paper. It read:  
  
"Wanted: A governess with knowledge of French, Latin, and piano. Must be able to start immediately. Pay L 20 a month, including room and board. Interested parties apply to John Kiones, 720 Vauxhall Road."  
  
I figured it would be safe enough to just go up and inquire about the ad. Hopefully I could get a look around the house and see whether or not this was a dead end lead.  
  
I walked up the steps slowly, trying very hard not to look at Holmes, who was just across the street acting like he was waiting for someone. I rang the bell and waited. And waited. And waited.  
  
I was about to give up when I heard someone fumbling with the lock. The door opened to reveal a tall, well-dressed, and rather grouchy-looking man.   
  
"What?" He barked at me.  
  
"Er, my name is Audrey Hepburn. I'm here to inquire about the governess position." Audrey Hepburn? Where did that come from? The man looked me up and down before answering.  
  
"What position?" He growled. He seemed unable to speak in a normal tone of voice.  
  
"The one in today's paper." I held up the Classified Ads as evidence. "It's says apply to Mr. Kiones, 720 Vauxhall Road…"  
  
"Wrong address!" He barked again, right before slamming the door in my face. Well, that went well.  
  
I joined Holmes in the shadows of the alley across the street and related all that had happened.   
  
"He's lying about something." Holmes said thoughtfully.  
  
"Well duh." Holmes ignored my comment.  
  
"Our next stop should be the real estate agents, but today is Sunday, they'll be closed." Holmes was doing that thing where he was talking to himself again.   
  
"Too bad you don't know a thief who could pick the lock for you or something." That got his attention.  
  
"What makes you think I need a thief to pick a lock for me?"  
  
* * * *  
  
A quirk of 19th century London was that nearly every house was a rental. This meant that whoever was living at 720 Vauxhall Road probably had his name written down in a real estate companies files somewhere. The trick was finding it.   
  
Somehow, Holmes knew that the area of Vauxhall Road was leased by the Mercer & Howe Realty Company. Mercer & Howe was located not too far from Vauxhall Road, but we had to make a detour first.  
  
"Aurora, what is this place?" Holmes asked, as we climbed the dingy, rickety stairs.  
  
"My flat."   
  
"Wonderful."  
  
"I didn't get it for the view." My flat was basically a room with a locked door. When I returned to the 19th century, I needed a place to stash all the stuff I brought back with me. Things that would cause a lot of problems if they were found. The building had probably been condemned decades ago, was in a high crime neighborhood, in one of the more "colorful" sections of the East End.   
  
Holmes hovered on the threshold while I gather my supplies. There was no way I was breaking into anywhere in a dress. Okay, maybe that one time, but there were extenuating circumstances. It didn't take long; I didn't have much stuff there. Just a laptop, my lock picks, and a few other techno gadgets.  
  
In the cab, a realization came to me. They tend to do that every once and a while. The sheer madness of the whole situation hit me. I, the ex-thief, and Holmes, the most famous detective ever, working together. We had this whole yin-yang thing going on.  
  
We pulled up a block away from the offices of Mercer & Howe and walked the rest of the way. The sun was beginning to fade out again and a London fog was curling over the cobblestones. The street was as deserted as it was likely to get. I was wearing a huge black overcoat over my close fitting blouse and slacks. My hair was tucked under one of those hats that everyone one in this century seems to like. To the rest of the world Holmes and I looked like two ordinary guys standing in the doorway to get out of the wind.   
  
I took about fifteen seconds to pick the lock. It was really child's play compared to some of the lock people put on their houses in the 21st century. The files for Vauxhall Road were in a filing cabinet on the second floor, clearly marked "Vauxhall Road."   
  
I kept watch while Holmes scanned the files with my pen flashlight. He hadn't been too impressed with that little piece of technology, said something about "natural progression of science."  
  
Anyway, 720 Vauxhall Road was sold, rather than rented, to a Mr. Zachary Grant, widowed with no children. But the title to the house was in the name of Mrs. Anne Grant. Something about that seemed important. I couldn't think about it right now so I shoved it to the back of my brain for the moment.  
  
Holmes replaced the files and we left silently, careful to leave everything as it was. I even locked the door behind us. No one would ever notice anything amiss, no harm, no foul. There was a scary moment when a uniformed police officer walked by, whistling loudly, right as we were about to open the door again. Fortunately, he didn't notice a thing.  
  
I wasn't till we reached Baker Street again that the problem rolling around in the back of my brain resolved itself. It was rather like opening your eyes just before your annoying sister turns on the light and dazzles your eyes.   
  
"I think I know what the connection is." I declared to Holmes, who was brooding into the fire.  
  
"Back in college I took Criminal Justice classes."   
  
"Know thy enemy?" Holmes resisted a smile.  
  
"Something like that. Anyway, during the unit on serial killers our professor said, 'A person just doesn't wake up and decide to kill a bunch of people. There has to be a trigger, a decision, conscious or unconscious, that leads that person to that act.'"  
  
Let me pause for a moment and point out something. People in Holmes' day really didn't believe in serial killers, kinda like the bogeyman. A story made up to frighten people. The concept that a person would kill for no discernable reason was fairly new.  
  
Holmes nodded. "So he murdered Helena Beckham and kidnapped Jane Goldmeyer because some triggered him. Something caused him to snap."  
  
"And I bet anything that it was the death of his wife. I bet she looked just like Helena Beckham too." I added.   
  
"So, now how do we prove it." Holmes muttered. Good point. We had means, motive, opportunity and absolutely no evidence. Holmes rolled a cigarette but didn't light it. I poured a cup of coffee from the pot which had been sitting on the sideboard all day.  
  
~Now that we both have our addictive substances…~ I chuckled to myself.  
  
It was about ten minutes before Holmes spoke again. "If Helena Beckham was killed three days before her body was dumped, but a month after she was kidnapped, where was she all that time?"  
  
"Anywhere, did you see the size of that house? If this Grant guy lives alone he might not have any servants, or they might be forbidden from certain rooms."  
  
"Conjecture without a shred of evidence! Anything with Beckham's body was washed away by the rain and we can't get to our suspected crime scene."  
  
"Sure we can." I corrected. I committed one felony already today, what's the harm in two? But, while we had been talking and bouncing ideas off one another, Dr. Watson had decided to make a house call.  
  
Dr. Watson had been off doing house calls all day. But he was in the loop about the investigation, and had come to hear an update. I should also say that Dr. Watson would like nothing better to marry me off to Holmes. Remember back at the beginning where I got introduced as Aurora Watson? Total lie, we're not even close to being related. But Watson takes his duties as fake uncle very seriously.  
  
Well, guess what the first thought in his head was when he saw the two of us in a room together. That's right; ~"They're in 1ooove!"~ Not just "love" but "looove." The really annoying part was I wasn't sure that he was wrong. And now, we return to our story.  
  
"Watson! You've arrived just in time." Holmes said quickly before Watson could jump to any conclusions. And he continued, explaining the investigation so far. Watson was shocked and amused at the part about the break-in at the realty firm.  
  
"What were we supposed to do? Wait patiently for regular business hours?" I asked.  
  
"Very well. I concede the point." Watson agreed good-naturedly. "What do you intend to do next?"  
  
I looked at Holmes. That was exactly what we had been talking about when Watson came in. I had a vague feeling Holmes wouldn't mind breaking into our suspect's house, seeing as how we were already in law-breaker mode.  
  
"We must gather some solid evidence. We need more information. Why the title to the house is in his wife's name, for example." Holmes said. "Or the cause of death."  
  
"Great way to spend the day," I said sourly, "digging through musty records at the county courthouse." And I was so looking forward into breaking into that house.  
  
  
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Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	5. The Records Cavern

Chapter Four  
The Record Cavern  
  
Actually it was sorting through records at the General Register Office. All birth and death certificates are a matter of public record. But just because they were public didn't mean they were easy to find. The actual room containing the records was twice as big as a football stadium. Dust hung everywhere, muffling our footsteps.   
  
"Records are alphabetical by birth date." The wizened little man told us. He strongly reminded me of the man guarding the bridge in 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail.' "Good luck." He chuckled sinisterly.   
  
"We're gonna need it." I whispered under my breath. Holmes only raised an amused eyebrow.   
  
"To work." He said, slinging his overcoat over a chair and striding off into the forest of shelves. I sighed, then sneezed.  
  
I didn't follow though. Instead I grabbed the first file within reach and rifled through its contents. If we were going to look through Mrs. Grant's file for oddities, I had to know what was normal.  
  
After I made a mental checklist of the items in Mr. Robert Hackett's file (birth certificate, marriage certificate to an Alice Parson, death certificate, a document from the coroner's jury's declaring his death from heart disease and a will), I followed Holmes into the shelves.  
  
I found him standing on a chair to reach the top shelves. We knew Mrs. Anne Grant's birth date from the file in the real estate office, but there was no way of identifying the files without looking inside them.   
  
"Mr. Anthony Goat." Holmes said as I approached. "The last file in the row is Brian Graves." He sighed and shoved Mr. Goat's file back into it's' place.   
  
"The oh-so-fun process of elimination." I commented as I pulled files, moving backwards towards Anne Grant as Holmes came from the other direction.  
  
The monotony of pulling out a file glancing at the name and shoving it back in quickly became mind numbing. G, Brendon. G, Brendan. G, Bradley. G, Betty. G, Barbara. G, Anthony. G, Antony. G, Athena. G, Arthur. G, Arnold. G, Anne. G, Amy. Wait, go back one.  
  
"Holmes, I found it." He stepped off the chair and sat next to me and we spread out Grant, Anne's file on the floor. I picked up the certificate that announced the marriage of Zachary Grant to Anne Jarvis. Next was the certificate announcing her death a year later.   
  
"I hereby bequeath my entire estate to my children, to be divided equally between them. If I should die with no surviving children, then my entire estate shall revert to London Children's Charity." Holmes read aloud from her will. "There's no mention of her husband anywhere in the document. And it's dated three months after her marriage."  
  
"Sounds like a happy relationship to me." I added, wondering why they married in the first place. "So why does the hubby still have the house? It should have gone with to charity like the rest of the estate."  
  
"Assuming the estate was given away at all." Holmes replied. "There is no autopsy report. No matter what the circumstances are, when a twenty-five year old woman dies there should be an inquest. The death certificate says simple 'natural causes.'"  
  
I thought about this for a moment. "So he kills his wife, then covers it up so he can keep all her money. So why kidnap the other two girls?" I mused. If it was murder-for-profit, then my serial killer theory was disproved. But an assassin wouldn't continue to murder after the target was dead. Would he?  
  
"Perhaps murdering his wife had more of an effect on him than he thought it would. The act unhinged him, and now he goes around killing women who look like her in an attempt to do the task correctly." Holmes pondered, staring off into the distance. For someone who couldn't possibly have read Freud's theories, it was a very good analysis of a serial killer's motives.  
  
"Probably, but that won't hold up in any court in the world." I reminded him.   
  
His eyes lost their distant look and Holmes returned to the present. "True. So our on recourse is extra-legal action."  
  
"Let's round up a posse."  
  
"Aurora, you read too many Western romances."  
  
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Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	6. Stakeout

Just a quick thanks to The Powers That Be who maintain this bastion of creativity in the vast cultural wasteland. You never know how much you love it until the hard drives crashes.  
  
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Chapter Five  
Stakeout  
  
Hollywood lied. Now I know this may come as a shock to some of you, but it's true. In the movies, thieves always just break into someplace with no advance planning and no clear goal and somehow they magically find the safe and crack it. Utter lies. Being a thief, especially a good one, takes preparation and planning. It takes some brain work.   
  
It takes day-long stakeouts on the roof of the office that shares a back alley with 720 Vauxhall Road. Thankfully that part wasn't till later. Right now, I was wandering up and down Vauxhall Road with a map, looking lost, so I could get a good idea of the layout of the neighborhood. Holmes was somewhere up the street, gossiping with some of the servants of the neighboring mansions. We met up for lunch at Piccadilly Circus.  
  
"No one seems to know much about the Grant family." Holmes said about his reconnaissance. "Quiet people. They moved in a year ago, just the husband and wife. No one has seen the wife for quite a while. The neighborhood families don't seem to know that she's dead. There is one servant, a cook, and she never speaks with any of the servants on the block. The house might as well be empty for all the interaction they have with the community."  
  
"Does the cook live there?" I asked.  
  
"No, she has her own house; she leaves every evening around seven." Holmes replied, shaking his head. We walked on for a minute, absorbed in thought.   
  
"What does he do for a living?" I asked.  
  
"Nothing by all accounts. They rarely see him leave the house. Elizabeth thinks he's factory owner or something else that doesn't require him to leave the house."  
  
"Elizabeth?" I asked archly, trying not to snicker. It was rather brilliant of him to figure out that a person will tell you anything if you pretend to flirt with them. Lord knows I've used the same tactic myself.  
  
"She is the maid for the house across the street." He said unperturbed.   
  
"She'll be heartbroken when she sees you talking to the maid next door."   
  
Holmes only chuckled. If Grant never left the house, that presented a new problem for us. I had planned on forcing the back door during the day, when only the cook would be home. But if he was there also, the plan became much more risky.  
  
"I think that I should do the actual breaking and entering part." Holmes said. "I stand a better chance against Grant." Great, now Holmes was going to go all macho on me.  
  
"I think not. First of all, this is my area of expertise, not yours. It's one thing to investigate a robbery; it's another thing to commit one. Second, who knows what this girl has been through? She's bound to be frightened of strange men. You'll have a hard time getting her out of there. She's more likely to trust a fellow female."   
  
"Fine, if you think you can handle it…" Holmes yielded in the face of my overwhelming logic. I couldn't decide if he was being over-protective or just exhibiting some classic male chauvinism. I shook my head clear of interpersonal dramas and returned to the problem at hand.  
  
"We had better try this at night then. If only we could lure him out of the house somehow." I sighed. What would draw a serial killer out of his den?  
  
"Mr. Grant seems to be the type of person who would personally avenge any attack on him." Holmes said. What? That is perhaps the stupidest statement I've ever heard from him.  
  
"If I created a distraction outside, how long would you need to get the girl out?" I stand corrected.  
  
"What do you mean by 'distraction'?" I asked sharply. "I don't think fake fire-bombing his house would work."  
  
Holmes looked a bit surprised for a moment. After all, I wasn't supposed to know about the Irene Adler incident. "No, but if a ruffian were to break out a window of his house, don't you think Grant you chase that ruffian?"  
  
"And beat the shit out of that ruffian once he caught up with him?" Holmes shrugged. "You've finally lost it." I said flatly.  
  
"And breaking into the house of a murderer isn't dangerous? This way you have a better chance of getting her out." Holmes shot back. Good point.  
  
"All right." I threw up my hands. I wasn't going to try to out-stubborn him. That could take all week. "I've got some equipment that will even the odds."   
  
  
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Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	7. Over The Roof and Through The Window

A/N: Just to answer a continual question I get, 'Will Aurora and Holmes get together?' Kinda, maybe, i dunno. But the question will be dealt with very soon, I promise! ;)   
-Kerowyn  
  
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Chapter Six  
Over The Roof and Through The Window  
  
"What time is it?" I asked  
  
"7:45." Holmes answered after a pause. "She should be leaving any time now."  
  
I sighed and shifted position. The shift caused the walkie-talkie clipped to my belt to jab into my side. I tried again but this time my taser dug into my back. Holmes had offered a revolver like the one he was now carrying, but I refused. Finally I returned to my original position, with a sigh for my aching back. No one ever builds a roof thinking 'Will this be a comfortable spot for a stakeout?'   
  
Holmes picked up the night vision goggles and surveyed the house with them. For once he was impressed by modern technology.  
  
"Aurora, how do these things work?" He asked.  
  
I chuckled and took the goggles. The house was covered in the characteristic green wash. Three vaguely human forms stood out against the dark green, with the occasional dot or blob that meant a fire, candle or electric light. One, obviously the cook, puttered about in a room on the ground floor. A second, Grant, was also seated in a room on the ground floor. The tiny flare of light nearby indicated that he was in a library or study. A third lay very still in a room on the upper floor. The third blob might be mistaken for a fire in a hearth if it weren't for the lack of movement.   
  
"All light and heat is basically a form of radiation, right? The goggles just sense light that is outside the visible spectrum. Like the heat radiation given off by the human body."   
  
"There she goes." Holmes said suddenly. The cook stepped out into the alley, locking the door behind her. Neither of us spoke until she disappeared around the corner.  
  
"We should give her about ten minutes, just to make sure she doesn't come back for anything." I sighed, worrying the long black sleeves Patience wasn't my strong suit.   
  
"Relax. At least we know Jane's alive." Holmes pointed out, trying to cheer me up. There was only one person the figure lying on the second floor could be. The fact that her body was still giving off strong, steady heat meant that she was still alive, but she had barely moved since we had started our stakeout three hours ago. At best she was just tied up, at worst she could be drugged or injured.  
  
"Which reminds me," I pulled my other piece of modern equipment out of the bag. A pair of two-way radios. "If you need to talk to me just press this button and talk into the speaker. It works both ways so I'll be able to tell you when I'm clear."  
  
Holmes turned over the receiver in his hands. "Like this?" He thumbed the button and spoke into the device, but the feedback from my receiver whined over the speaker.  
  
"Is it supposed to do that?" Holmes asked dubiously.  
  
"It will work once the radios aren't right next to each other." I assured him. "Just don't lose it." The joke garnered a grin from Holmes. Somewhere in the distance a bell tolled eight o'clock.  
  
"C'mon. It's time."  
  
Once down from the rooftops, Holmes looped around to the front of the street. He was dressed like a street thug, complete with seedy jacket. According to the plan he would break the window and make a run for it. Once rounding a corner he would toss the jacket and blend in with the upper class neighborhood. While Grant was chasing Holmes, I would free Jane. Theoretically, of course.  
  
Part One of the plan went off without a hitch. I watched from the alley as Holmes approached the house silently, then chucked a brick through the window of the study. The window shattered instantly, showering the ground with sparkling shards. The reaction from inside the house was instantaneous. Grant let out a roar like a wounded bear and charged out the front door.  
  
Holmes had a head start of about half a block, but Grant went after him anyway, slamming the door so hard that it bounced open again. I didn't waste any time. I was up the stairs and in the door in under ten seconds. I eased the door shut behind me, just in case someone decided to investigate.   
  
The noise of the window breaking and Grant yelling brought out all the neighbors onto their porches. They started calling to each other, asking what was going on. I ignored the ruckus outside and headed for the stairs.  
  
The house was cold, dark and slightly damp. It had a definite aura of malevolent decay. I went up the stairs, feeling my way with one hand. Near the top of the stairs my hand knocked into something, a portrait. There was just enough light to make out the woman in the picture, who bore an eerie resemblance to Jane Goldmeyer and Helena Beckham. Mrs. Anne Grant.  
  
My brain processed this bit of information as the rest of me moved forward down the hall. The night-vision goggles could only tell me Jane's approximate location. I opened every door on the hall. Every door opened to reveal perfectly ordinary rooms, except for the last one, which was locked. ~It's always the last one.~ I thought.  
  
"Aurora!" Holmes' voice scared the beejeezes out of me. I'd forgotten about the walkie-talkies. I fumbled with my receiver for a moment before replying.   
  
"What?"   
  
"He's coming back. Hurry up."  
  
Grant must have realized that it was dangerous to leave his captive alone. There was no time for finesse. I kicked the door open.  
  
At first this room seemed to be empty too. Then I saw a flicker of movement in the far corner of the room.   
  
"It's alright, hon. I'm here to get you out." I said soothingly. Jane Goldmeyer was tied to a chair in the corner of the room. She didn't seem to have noticed me. Her eyes were wide, fixed on a point behind me. I looked around.  
  
Directly across from where Jane was tied lay a sledgehammer. The mallet was quite clearly covered in blood and other organic material. I stepped in front of her, blocking the hammer from view. She blinked rapidly and then focused on me.  
  
"I'm here to get you out." I said loudly and firmly. "But I need you to stay with me, okay?"  
  
Jane blinked a few more times then nodded. The ropes that bound her to the chair were too complicated to untie. I remove a thin stiletto blade from my lock-pick kit and cut the ropes. Jane sagged from the chair onto the floor. She seemed too weak and spaced out to hold herself up.  
  
~It's never easy.~ I pulled Jane to her feet and put one of her arms around my shoulder. Once upright she seemed to get the idea.   
  
"Okay, now one foot in front of the other. C'mon girl." I coaxed her into a walk. We had just reached the stairs when Holmes' voice came out of the walkie-talkie.   
  
"Aurora, he's at the door!" The warning did more harm than good. Jane spooked at the strange voice and tried to run, but being unable to support her own weight, all she was able to do was throw us both off balance.  
  
I stumbled backwards, trying to regain my footing. It was no use. We both fell backwards. Jane managed to jab me in the stomach when she landed on top of me. Fortunately, the door slammed about the same time we hit the ground, covering up the noise.   
  
Another slam followed the first, and I decided that Grant had gone into his study to examine the damage. Jane couldn't move fast enough for us to get down the stairs and out the door before Grant came out again. We were pinned down.  
  
I pulled Jane into one of the doors along the hall and locked the door behind us. Aside from the standard fireplace the room was bare. There was a window overlooking the alley behind the house, if all else failed we could jump out the window. It was only about fifteen feet down.   
  
Jane slid down against the wall, fainting from fear and exhaustion. I figured she would notice the talking black box. "Holmes, you there?" I whispered, careful to turn the volume down.  
  
"Yes, where are you?"   
  
"Upstairs." A moment's silence on the other end.  
  
"I'm coming in."   
  
"Like hell."   
  
"I'll play the concerned neighbor. Ask if he's okay."  
  
"There's only one stairway and it goes right past the front door."   
  
Holmes considered this. "I'll call the police."  
  
"With no proof and no warrant?" Holmes must be desperate to consider calling in the men in uniform. Comforting thought. A noise on the stairs caught my attention.   
  
"Gotta go." I said and snapped off the handset. Hopefully Holmes wouldn't barge in after me.  
  
The steps mounted the stairs slowly and deliberately. I realized that he was trying to make himself heard. Jane was no longer fainting. Her eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. The steps paced slowly past the door. I held my breath, anxiously awaiting Grant's reaction when he found his captive had tunneled out.  
  
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Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	8. Close Call

I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I'm one of those pedantic types who must research everything, she puts into her stories.   
Let's just say researching stun guns on the internet was very interesting.  
  
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Chapter Seven  
Close Call  
  
Needless to say, Mr. Grant was not happy to find Jane gone. I heard the door at the end of the hall open and close. Silent moment passed into silence moment and I began to wonder if Grant had just had a heart attack and died from the shock.   
  
The sledgehammer burst through the far wall in a shower of plaster and wood fragments. Houses were built sturdy these days; swinging the hammer hard enough to punch a hole like that in the wall took immense brute force. Jane flinched but fortunately didn't scream. It took some force of will to stop myself from screaming.  
  
Grant left the hammer lodged in the wall and stormed down the stairs. I realized that I was still holding my breath and gasped for air. A few more doors slammed downstairs, then a final slam which echoed into the alley.   
  
I looked out the window and saw Grant, hunched into an overcoat, making his way down the alley. My mouth fell open with shock. ~Grant must think that Jane escaped on her own. He's going to look for her.~ A clatter from the stairs snapped me back to the present. It could be only one man making his noisy way up the stairs, damn him.  
  
The door burst open, regardless of the lock, and in dashed Sherlock Holmes. This time Jane actually did scream, a long ear-piercing note.  
  
"Damn you man! I told you to wait!" I yelled over Jane. Holmes ignored the obscenity.  
  
"Where?" He asked. Jane stopped screaming once she realized this strange man in front of her wasn't Grant.  
  
"He thinks she made a get-away on her own. Gone after her." I gestured at the alley. Holmes turned and made to dash out the door, but froze at the sound of a voice in the street.  
  
"Oy, what's all this then?" The familiar cry of the London bobby rose above the stunned ruckus the neighbors were making.   
  
"No getting out that way." I said unnecessarily. Holmes frowned.  
  
"There's a back stair." A thin, weak, but nevertheless clear voice said. We both turned to stare in amazement at Jane. "It's how I was brought in." She waved vaguely at the unexplored end of the hallway and passed out.  
  
Holmes was at the door and down the hidden steps in a second. I paused for only a moment before following. It didn't seem right to leave her unconscious on the floor like that, but it seemed a far greater injustice to let Grant escape so easily.  
  
I caught up with Holmes standing on the corner of a relatively busy street for this late hour. Grant could reasonably assume that Jane would take the shortest route home. But here the path split, Grant could have gone either way.  
  
"Split up?" Holmes asked rather than ordered, I noted.   
  
"Left." I said by way of agreement.  
  
"Right." He nodded and we set off in opposite directions. I noticed that there were less people traveling in this direction, and that the road had started to narrow. The only question was would Grant take the road less traveled.  
  
I gathered no few strange looks as jogged down the road. Oh well, it wasn't like I had a chance to change out of my ninja-like outfit. The road came to a dead end after about three minutes. The cul-de-sac was empty. Grant must have gone the other way.  
  
I cursed in three languages and turned to head back, when a strange sound reached my ears. It sounded almost like an echo of my voice, except it was all in English. At the far end Grant stood, cursing the buildings which obstinately refused to move out of his way.  
  
He turned to leave the dead-end. I slipped backwards into the shadows. He walked past me without the slightest sign he had seen me. ~How thick can you get?~  
  
Despite my earlier argument with Holmes about being able to take care of myself, I had no desire to take on Grant without back up.   
  
And as if the thought had summoned him, Holmes came strolling up the street. He was on the other side of the street, being very careful not draw any attention to himself. Grant was so intent on his goal you might have dropped an anvil on his head and he would keep on going.  
  
I waved at Holmes. He looked startled to see me there, but kept on walking. I motioned towards Grant, trying to convey my plot. Holmes nodded and his hand crept into the pocket that kept the revolver. I shook my head and pointed to myself. His hand withdrew.   
  
"Excuse me sir." Holmes hailed, crossing the street. The street was deserted but Grant kept right on walking.  
  
"Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help me." I noticed Holmes was speaking with a American, and distinctly Southern drawl. "I'm 'friad I've lost my way in this big ole town."   
  
Big ole town? Yeesh. Oh well. Grant slowed to say something about maps and idiots but was unable to finish the sentence. 500,000 volts of pure electricity has that affect on people. Grant collapsed unceremoniously onto the cobblestones.   
  
"Curious weapon. Is he dead?" Holmes asked phlegmatically.   
  
"Nah. You might want to tie him up though. It'll wear off in a few minutes." I carefully turned off the taser and stowed it in its case. The guy who sold it to me had some funny stories about people who had left them on accidentally, and I had no wish to be featured in one of his tales.  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Just thinking of that quote by Kipling. 'For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.'"  
  
"Damn straight."  
  
  
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Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	9. Rising Action Falling Action

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Chapter Eight  
Falling Action/Rising Action  
  
The conclusion of a case is generally a rather haphazard affair. There are a thousand little loose ends that remain to be tied, and every single one demands to be taken care of right now, thank you very much.   
  
The first loose end was getting back to Vauxhall Road. We couldn't very well drag Grant back. Evidently Holmes had foreseen something like this because no sooner was Grant neatly trussed and gagged, a hansom cab rolled up.   
  
"Evenin' sir, miss." The driver said, tipping his hat at us and sounding smugly conspiratorial. As soon as we were all safely onboard, the driver snapped his whip smartly and headed back to Vauxhall Road without a single word from Holmes.   
  
What awaited us there resembled a small riot. Several police constables were holding back a crowd of gawkers while another two watched over the semi-conscious, blanket-wrapper figure of Jane Goldmeyer. One detective was taken down the statement of a well-to-do woman, who seemed to be narrating with her hands. Another was listening to her irate husband with an air of exaggerated patience. The husband paused for breath and the officer who had been listening to his verbal abuse began to dish out some of his own, to the immense glee of the crowd.   
  
I considered allowing the scene to continue simply for entertainment value, but the cabby had other ideas. The driver pulled up right in front of 720 Vauxhall Road, blithely ignoring the yells of the constables. The crowd held its collective breath.   
  
Zachary Grant spilled out onto the street. The police stared while the crowd of working class men roared with laughter. Holmes stepped out next, then offered his hand to me. I hardly needed help getting out of the cab but I took it anyway.   
  
Holmes flipped the driver a coin (a sovereign) and the driver pulled away before anyone could stop him. The crowd was buzzing with excitement at this new development. I noticed that the officer listening to the husband was in fact Inspector Lestrade.   
  
Holmes strode up to Lestrade, outwardly unaware of the stir he was creating. Lestrade had pulled himself together and resumed his customary scowl. His mood was not in the least bit improved by presence.   
  
"Ah, Lestrade. I see you received my telegram." Holmes said genially, then proceeded to explain the events of the day to him. When no more men came tumbling out of carriages the crowd of on-lookers drifted away. Grant, who was by now fully conscious and spitting mad, was hauled off to jail. Jane was taken to the hospital to meet up with her family and recover.  
  
Holmes paused at the part where Grant escaped out the alley and my ears perked up. Holmes had skipped over my role in the day's events fairly lightly but I was curious how he would tell the tale of me bringing down Grant with a stun gun.   
  
"And then what?" Lestrade prompted.   
  
"He simply collapsed. The shock of losing his captive overwhelmed, I should say." I refrained from laughing. It was hardly the dramatic ending the readers of Conan Doyle were used to.   
  
Lestrade didn't look too terribly convinced either, but let it slide. He could hardly be mad seeing as how we had literally dropped his suspect at his feet. He was quite content to take himself home for the night.  
  
As did we, but rather than taking a carriage we walked back on the streets of London. In a city as old at London, the layout of city streets, is, at times, shall we say, a bit complex. But Holmes led through the twisty streets and alleys and in no time at all we were at Baker Street.  
  
"Shall I expect your departure to be as abrupt as it was last time?" Holmes asked, meaning, will you literally disappear into thin air again?  
  
"I've been meaning to ask you, what did that look like? Was like on Star Trek…" I trailed off, remembering there was no such thing as Star Trek, yet. Holmes blinked politely.  
  
"Never mind." I sighed. Maybe if I set up a video camera…  
  
Holmes poured a glass of something alcoholic, and offered me some. I accepted, and it turned out to be some very good brandy. I was, in fact, expecting to be pulled back to my present and Holmes' future, in a few minutes. I come to visit for the day and look what happens.  
  
"You didn't answer my question." Holmes pointed out.  
  
"No I didn't."  
  
Holmes cleared his throat. "All right, all right." I stood walked over to the window. I followed the progress of a hansom cab down the street for a moment. "Any minute now that damned machine should kick in. You'd think he'd fix an accurate timer on it or something."  
  
"Ah." Holmes came over to the desk and leafed through the letters there. Actually there was only one that remained unopened. He opened it with careful nonchalance. "You visits have become…"  
  
I glanced up as Holmes trailed off. He was reading the note with a frown. It was my turn to clear my throat. He handed the note to me. It was a death threat; it seemed to have been transcribed straight from a dime novel.   
  
"Red ink. How quaint." I remarked, looking up to say something reassuring when a movement on the street caught my eye.   
  
Let me pause to describe the layout to you. There were two windows in the famous sitting room with the desk set between them. From my angle I could see the cab from earlier (marked by its dapple gray horse) coming back down the street. I could also see the rifle sticking out of one of the windows.  
  
Without pausing for thought I dove at Holmes. His momentary shock at this action allowed me to knock him to the floor, just as the window above shattered into a crystal storm. The report of the rifle echoed in the canyon of the streets as the sound of hooves sped away.   
  
I rolled over onto my back, which was a mistake. The floor was covered in tiny knives of glass. I could hear Holmes moving as well, which was a comforting sign. I sat up carefully, checking to make sure I didn't have any large holes in me.   
  
Since everything seemed to be in working order I stood and surveyed the damage. The broken glass only heightened the impression that a twister had come through recently.   
  
"Are you all right?" Holmes asked anxiously. I nodded, feeling strangely detached.  
  
"You?" I realized he was grasping me by both shoulders. Good thing too, because everything was beginning to swim into nauseating black. Everything but Holmes. ~Strange~ I thought as my mind recognized the symptoms of time travel. ~Usually, everything fade out.~  
  
  
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CLIFFHANGER!!! oh, I love these. but i won't leave you hanging... or will I? :)  
  
Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	10. The Narrative of Dr John Watson

Final chapter! I dunno whether to cry or cheer. I know! I'll chy. Wait, isn't that a kind of tea. hmm...  
  
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Chapter Nine  
The Narrative of Dr. John Watson  
  
Once again it falls to me to finish Aurora's tale. She insists that I tell of the night that she and Holmes disappeared.  
  
I must have arrived very shortly after the attack because as my cab pulled up the few people on the street at that late hour were staring down the road or up at the shattered window. I rushed in to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the entrance hall. She seemed at a loss to describe what had happened.  
  
I entered the sitting room and stopped dead on the threshold. It was empty. Why on earth should someone shoot at an empty room?  
  
I sent Mrs. Hudson off for the police, then set about committing details to memory. The sitting room door was wide open. Two glasses, both half full of brandy sat on the table. The glass from the window was inside the room, indicating the shot had been fired from outside. The bullet had lodged itself in the ceiling toward the centre of the room, so the shooter was on the street.   
  
I saw a bit of paper lying in the debris and picked my way through the glass as carefully as I could to retrieve it. As I bent to pick it up, I noticed a small amount of blood on the shards. My heart sank. No doubt Aurora was here with Holmes and now one or both of them were injured. If only I had arrived sooner…  
  
The note proved to be a simple death threat. Holmes received something of the sort on a regular basis. I shall reproduce the text here:  
  
MR. HOLMES  
  
THE STEAMER FRIESLAND CASE IS YOUR LAST. YOU AREN'T SAFE ANYWHERE. REVENGE WILL BE SWEET.   
  
The revenge the author had in mind had obviously not been wrought. Holmes and Aurora had obviously escaped, though where and why were still a mystery. I had every confidence that my friend would reappear shortly. Inspector Lestrade shared my opinion. He also related the conclusion of the case those two had been so involved in.   
  
I question Mrs. Hudson about the shooting, and she swore that no one came downstairs after the shot went off. I did not doubt her. My searches for Holmes in all his usually haunts proved fruitless as did my inquiry at Mycroft's. To find that Holmes and Aurora had slipped under even Mycroft's far-reaching gaze troubled me, and as the days passed my worried grew.  
  
Where on earth could they be?  
  
  
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WHAT! I know you're all thinking, that's the end? Sorry. There is a sequel, unfortuantly it exists mostly in my head. As you all so insightfully noticed, it will involve Holmes in the future/present. Anyway, I promise a conclusion. Feel free to flame me if I don't.  
  
Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Review!  
  
.·´¨`·»¦«·Kerowyn·»¦«·´¨`·. 


	11. Author's Note

I was diggin through my archives and I ran across this inspiration for this little episode. It was originally an English project. When I got done with it I realized it would be perfect for Aurora and Holmes. It's not even close to the style Aurora uses, but i hope you like it. It's also posted over on fictionpress.net. The assignment was to rewrite an episode of Homer's Odyssey. See if you can tell which one it is.  
  
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A Skeleton in the Attic   
  
"Wanted: A governess with a knowledge of French, Latin, and piano.   
  
Must be able to start immediately. Pay L 20 a month, including room   
  
and board. Interested parties apply to John Kiones, 720 Tooley Street."  
  
"Good evening sir. No, that's no good. Good evening sir." I rehearsed my lines again as I walked down Tooley Street. My funds were too short to take a cab from my makeshift apartment on Vauxhall Road. I had been applying for governess positions for nearly a month, but good positions were hard to come by. Tooley Street was an affluent part of town, so hopefully this would be suitable.   
  
720 Tooley Street was a large cavernous manor. All the other houses on the street had cheerfully lit windows shining out over the London streets. But the house I intended to visit looked dark, cold, and a little damp. I hesitated at the foot of the stairs. A London fog began to creep over the cobblestones and the air grew chilly. I shook off a sense of foreboding and rang the bell.  
  
A well-dressed man, who towered at least seven feet, answered the door. He favored me with a stony glare before speaking.  
  
"What do you want?" He rumbled.  
  
"Good evening sir. I came to answer an ad for a governess. My name is Vanessa Warsley." I answered in a voice that was steady, if not loud. His whole demeanor changed at once.  
  
"Ah, do come in," He smiled broadly, holding the door open for me. "Please forgive my rough greeting, I was reading and I do so hate to be disturbed."  
  
He showed me into a dimly lit study. A small fire crackled on the grate, but gave off little warmth. A newspaper lay open on the table. One of the ads was circled. I could see that it was the same ad I had come to answer, but the date on the paper was October 25, 1904. Exactly a year ago. Mr. Kiones whisked the paper of the desk and into a drawer before I could be sure of the date.   
  
"Your duties here would be quite simple." He began without preamble. "I have a young son who wants looking after. You would spend your time taking care of him, teaching him a bit of French, a bit of Latin. My wife enjoys piano music, and if she should wish you to play a melody or two, I'm sure it would be no imposition. You would have your own room of course, adjoining the nursery. We have a butler, Smith, who is rather deaf, and a cook who has her own home. Your salary would be twenty pounds a month and weekends would be your own." He finished quickly. "Would these terms be acceptable?"  
  
"I…I…" I was a bit flustered. Usually these interviews lasted much longer than a minute, and I had a vague feeling of unease about the whole arrangement. On the other hand, twenty pounds a month was very good money, and I could still see the small mountain of bills on my desk. "I believe that it would be acceptable."  
  
"Excellent!" He gave another broad, empty smile. "I'm afraid my wife and son are away in the country until Friday, so we'll put off introductions until then." He opened the door to the study once again. "Allow me to show you the house."  
  
My opinion of the house was that it was dark, cold, and rather damp. I saw no evidence of anyone else in the house. Even the child's room looked abandoned. I put that down to the absence of Mr. Kiones wife and son.   
  
"And this," he said, opening a door at the end of a corridor, "will be your room."  
  
I just had time to register the fact that the room was totally bare before he shoved me into to the room, slamming the door behind me. There was a metallic click of the key in the lock.   
  
"Good night, Miss Vanessa Warsley." His sinister voice echoed down the corridor.  
  
I scrambled to my feet and tried to force open the door, to no avail. After beating on the door and shouting myself hoarse at the evil creature who had imprisoned me, I began to calm down and examine my surrounding. I had been wrong in thinking that the room was empty. A cot-like bed stood along the wall, half-rotted. A single window opposite the door provided some illumination as my eyes adjusted to the dark.  
  
A small bundle of what looked like clothes lay huddled in a corner. I approached slowly and tried to lift the first item. The skeleton which was wearing those clothes came loose from its final resting place. I consider myself a capable woman, not easily frightened, but this final shock was too much. I shrieked and fainted away.  
  
Ding ding ding ding ding  
  
The sound of a grandfather clock reverberated through the house, awakening me. I awoke all at once, suddenly comprehending. The monster downstairs must have killed the poor soul whose bones now lay in the corner. Perhaps she was even his absent wife. And now the same fate awaited me.  
  
The sound of footsteps on the stairs startled me out of my daze. I stood quickly, looking for an escape. There was none, of course. ~ Except to hide, under the bed like a frightened child. ~ I thought grimly. Then an idea sprung to mind. The bed was rotting to pieces, one of the legs had already fallen off. I snatched it and hefted it like a club. Kiones' steps grew ever closer.  
  
I stood behind the door and waited. It opened suddenly and Kiones strode in, not expecting resistance. I swung the makeshift club, and it splintered over his head. He dropped to the floor with a loud cry, but I didn't stay to see if he had been knocked out.   
  
I ran as fast as I could go, down the stairs and out of the house. The first signs of dawn were beginning to show in the east. I took the first cab I saw straight to Scotland Yard, cab fare be damned.  
  
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~   
  
Did anyone guess the Cyclopes episode? If so, kudos, have cyber-cookie.  
  
Questions, comments, critisicms, complaints? Make your voice heard.  
  
.•´¨`•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨`•. 


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